Sunday, July 31, 2011

{Don't you just want to kiss him??}

There are four of them.

The inner chambers.

Beating, hopefully.

In rhythm, ideally.

First the lub, wait for it, the dub comes swiftly behind.

I am reminded that it beats without my command.

I am reminded that this bedraggled life depends on it.

And then my soul takes me there.

What if my pursuit was always spent on moving Your heart?

Knocking now, I want to enter.

I want to know Your heart.

I want to know Your ways.

I want to know Your person

and the fullness of Your grace.

I am sure that You will open.

Confidence comes with my covering; fresh with the blood of Jesus.

I stand now, for a while, knocking.

Urgency comes upon me, I am banging.

I am desperate for You.

Desperate to be hidden in Your heart.

Would You envelope me?

Hide me in Your heart O God, for it is what I was fashioned for.

You say that You made me in Your image

A large piece of You, fashioned into the smallness of me

And I wonder why I cannot find my belongingness here?

I smile from the soul, knowing that You knocked first.

It takes courage to put Yourself out there.

But I am thankful that You do not build walls around Your heart.

Surely I have opened the door and have eagerly let you in.

Can it be my turn now?

I want more.

More courage to walk the path that You have set before me.

More vision for Your purposes.

More presence, a holy communion.

Really, I just want to beat for You.

May my life be a rhythmic cadence, pounding, always knocking to go deeper.


{Clouds crowning the parent's place. Smiling and thinking that He is trampling our town. The clouds really are the dust of His feet.}

{Brother love took me on a date to meet some cute little burros}

{My roomie and I cooking dinner for a girls night! Living in Tempe has been so fun -- more to come on that later}

Friday, July 22, 2011

To nurse.

{Sometimes, I think that I will miss Queen Creek}


Your shrieks are hitting a higher C.

I hear you. So does everyone else who passes your door.

You are anxious, perhaps a bit confused.

You are likely in pain.

You are afraid and alone.

All alone.

It takes just one.

One person to stop and to care.

One pump of hand sanitizer as I walk into your room.

One gloved hand grasping yours.

One assurance that you are not alone. That I am here to walk this road with you.

You have made it. Weary and hurting, you are here now. Allow me to pick up your banner and stand on your behalf? To be your advocate?

To defend the weak.

What a privilege this is.

To be here. To see your smile make a comeback, your body close behind.

What a privilege this is.

To give many their first bath and some their last.

To loan these hands to laboring mothers and to lace these fingers into the hands of one who has received bad news; a poor prognosis.

To gently knock and come in when you are in your most vulnerable state.

I smile, I care, I nurse.

And while I do, my soul can't help but whisper "what about me?"

These feet are tired, these shoulders are heavy, this heart has been through the ringer and it's only 10 o'clock.

These hands have held life and ushered others to the door of the Father, knocked on their behalf.

What about me?

I am not in physical need, but what about my loneliness?



What about the days when I feel like I need someone to carry the banner on my behalf?

The days when I remember that these hands were made to be held?

The days when I am too tired to stand in the gap, when I could use the assurance that I am not alone?

And He lets me know my barrenness so I can learn to lean.

He comes like a gentleman, but with authority.

He is here.

He is present.

And He has given everything for this frail soul.

He is here.

During the internal cries that turn into external leakage.

And He reminds me that I do not need to be strong to be successful.

Whole to be used.

Perfect to be loved.

He washes my dirty hands with this truth, and it reaches my soul.

Trickling in like a line of Normal Saline, reality is that He values the weak, is endeared to the broken, and woos the ones who are far from perfection.

In this beautiful exchange, He has appraised my life, my soul, as worth dying for.

Divine exchange, death to life.

Empowered now by who You are and how You love, I take You with me when I go.

Into their room, I smile because You are with me.

I pump a puddle of sanitizer into my hands and I pray...

Be with me as I enter.
Blood of Jesus, be on this doorway and cover the doorway of this soul.
Jesus, You are the LORD of life.
You really are Jehovah Rapha.
Heal us once again.


{Dang Gina. The one that I love.}
{Phoenix One}
{Moving into my apartment yesterday... 6 ladies. In the heat. Dining room tables, recliners, beds, clothes... nbd ;) }

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Once Again.


Alone in a full room and a partially full row.

Alone in a room purposed for corporate worship.

Not alone in my Spirit.

Captivated by what my closed eyes could see.

Taken by the One.

Praying. Not for who I am or what I want, but for who He is and what He has given.

Praying for the promises that He has whispered to come. Quickly, please :)

Praying groans of the Spirit.

Groaning not for me.

Groans for You.

For who You are.

And You speak.

You tell me that Your greatest work came through Your greatest suffering.

And You call me to be like you.

And You see the tears that welled up from my deep.

They washed over the windows of my soul, to leave transparency behind.

Praying over the lives of my people, of Yours, I hear You again.

"Tear your clothes and put on sackcloth. Come to me with your tears, your empty stomach, yourself.

I want to restore what the years of the locusts have destroyed.

You are my chosen vessel.

There is power in your tears, authority in your prayers, holy in your hunger.

There is wholeness in your torn."

I know this is true, because I know the truth: Jesus.

My purpose is this: to be used for Your people. It is what this heart was made for.

If I have yet to taste what He has in store for His people, then I can be sure that I have yet to taste the suffering that will come with it.

May Your works of greatness manifest through much suffering.

For I am sure that joy and gladness come with the presence of the Lord, and in that I need not be afraid.

Would You wreck the souls in this city?

May they never. be. the. same.

Would You breathe life, rushing water, into this land?

Fill us once again.


Photo recap:

{Stuart and Brit. Service and Strength with courage in the middle. So excited to see what He's doing with our lives. This hunger will not be misplaced.}

{Wednesday nights. J running across busy streets. Pacing in parking lots -- lost in communion with the holy One. Beautiful braids not only bind us at the ankle. Our lives have been weaved with the larger strand. With Himself. Nights on trunks, covered in goosebumps. Calling them what they are: Godbumps. I am thankful for you.}

{Karis and Kasey and weddings. And sharing awkward moments. And showing platysmas. And laughing more than what my side stitches can take.}

{Women that I love. And their love that gives me cavities... it is so stinkin sweet}

{The lovely Lisa and her water that runs deep -- stems from the fulfilling One. To memories and coffee and the stranger that offered us spoons of whipped cream out of his mocha.}

{Aunt Hollie Haboob and the giggles we shared when she got to see her first Haboob! Wishing that she'd bring her humor and compassion to this desert. What a welcomed gift that would be.}
{Cleaning squad. Sweat coming from our foreheads, elbows deep in loving others. I can't think of a greater way to spend a Tuesday morning.}

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Out of a rock.


Longing for His people, holy, unstained.

A chosen people set aside, set apart, marked.

Marked with a pillar of cloud by day and with fire by night.

They knew of His provision.

Surely one of His works would constitute eternal praise?

One sign, one wonder, one covenant?

But we read and we recall.

Tales of grumbling, of fear, of dissatisfaction.


Always wanting more, wanting greater, wanting sexy.

A land with milk and honey.

No more of this wilderness.

This desert.

This dry place.

What if we are led to the dry place to accept provision?

One man's pursuit of the holy One, on behalf of his marked people.

One man's faith and partial obedience produced water.

Living streams, vast as a river, to bubble up out of a rock.

Could I be that one?

Could I be different and follow with full obedience?

Could I seek the tears of Your soul that have been stored up for your people here, and in the horn of Africa?

Could I ask that you release them, let them flow down your divine cheeks and pour out upon this dry land, weary souls?

Could I be the one to get on my face before You?

Before You because of Jesus.

Could I seek your forgiveness for the wrongs of these people, my people?

For all that we have done against you, for every un-shed tear You have stored up on our behalf because of grief, could I ask for a release?

Your chosen ones are dry. Spirits brittle. Hope becoming an illusion, to some, a mirage.

Could this be the hottest that they know, the driest their souls will be?

If this unforgiving land should take their bodies, hollow bones swallowed up by shallow graves, could their souls be with You?


Eternity with the living water.

On the sea of glass, on their faces, now full stomachs, could they be before You?

Entering into the chorus of praise to the One who is worthy.


Your holy provision came out of a rock.

This day, I ask, may came from your tears?

Let them roll. Like thunder down Your cheeks, would your storehouse of tears be emptied here; for we need You.


Ref: Numbers 20: 2-13

Crux of the fabric.

Who can sleep when these thoughts, vivid, are crawling around in my mind like worms in fresh soil?

This past Sunday, I joined my brother and sister in law (I do believe that is the first time I have typed that! ah) in the quest to find a new church. We attended one in Phoenix and sang Hymns. With an edgy beat. I loved it.

All week long, I have been stuck on a phrase from Be Thou My Vision...

"Heart of my own heart."

So simple.

Yet it has taken me 4 days to process.

Tonight, after spending 4 hours, in person, with one that I love {Briauna}, we climbed into our cars and talked on the phone all the way home.

Prayed, really.

For years, I have known that God has cut Bri and I out of the very same fabric.

Beautiful fabric.





Don't get me wrong, He has sewn us in to two distinct patterns... but the fabric is very much the same.

Tonight, on my way home, I smiled at the picture that He has made us out of His heart.

He has not made me out of His mind.

Do not be mistaken, I enjoy the acquisition of knowledge; thinking.

But it is not my strongest suit.

With diligence, perhaps it could be, but I have not earnestly sought that.

In the same way, I smiled tonight and thought that He has not made me out of His hands.

I like to work, serve, give.

It is something I enjoy, but again, it is not my strongest suit.

Much room for growth, for development.

Tonight, in a simple, but profound way, I realized that out of every organ, functioning body system, He has made me from His heart.

Ah, now this I can resonate with.

His heart.

It is the predominant pattern in the fabric of my life -- yes, the others are peppered in too.

But His heart, is my earnest desire -- the thing I seek above all else.

To know His love.

To be filled with it.

To pour it out on those who are hidden inside of it.

Bounding, it is large.

Larger than your shame and the baggage that you carry, His heart is big enough to hold.

Big enough to bring you in, to lose you in His intimacy.

His heart is what I most relate to.

His heart is what I love to share. And like that, I lam learning to share mine too.

Who am I to censor love -- to dictate who gets it and how much?

Tonight, in the simplest of ways, I prayed that His heart would be the crux of my fabric, of ours.

To get all nursing-ish up in your grill.... I prayed that He would be my coronary arteries.

Always supplying me with the what I need to carry out the demands of what it placed before me.

Always enough.




Incompatible with life without it.

Eyes heavy, I smiled and whispered: May You forever be the heart of my own heart.


Tuesday, July 12, 2011

My favorite.


Something I, in my short years, have much of. Most days.

Other days, the alarm goes off and I wonder if I could just lie there. All day.

Craving rest, but the kind that endless sleep never quite quenches.

The kind that makes you crazy until it is breathed over your soul.

Enough, the kind of the soul is enough.

I walked the dog tonight.

The smell of Asian food is heavy in the air -- such a tease.

And I smiled at a memory.

Recalling the time when I babysat two fiesty boys. And found myself readily in need of a cigarette break after only 5 hours.

-Don't worry mom, that is a figure of speech. I like my lungs.

We were wet.

Running through the sprinklers in our clothes at dusk.

One sprinkler head was missing.

The littlest, just over two, is going to be an engineer some day. I am claiming it now.

He picked up the broken head and tried to screw it back on to our own Old Faithful.

The water squrited in all directions with fury.

It pegged me of course -- which lead to giggles and a new game.

But on my walk, tonight, I found myself asking: could my love for others really come from the run off of my love for You?

Like this sprinkler head, could what is visible to others stem from what I have that is deeper with you?

Could I vest all of my energy in my love for You?

Could my life and my temporal, weak, love for others be the leftovers?

Could my love for others never steal the leading role of this performance?

Thank you.

It's not about my performance.

It's about Jesus.

Smiling now, seeing me for what I am.


Every. single. part of me.

Smiling, because tonight, with my stomach grumbling, you reminded me that Your hands are big enough to hold my brokenness together.

The creases of your palms hold in the goodness of Your Spirit.

You seal me in, fill me up, and long for me to pour over.

It was what I was created for.




May this energy, this love, not be misplaced.

May it always be spent on you. Wholly on You.

Praise be to Jesus who holds me in, fills me up, spills me over, and sends me out.

To love.

It is my favorite.


Sunday, July 10, 2011



I recognize that this number has little significance outside of its context.

It could be the amount due for my first month's rent in Tempe.

The decibel I hit when I discovered a roof rat in the pantry (house sitting).

The number of minutes I have until I start my first day of orientation at St Joe's (tomorrow).


The number of miles I drove last week.

Ding, ding!

With the knowledge that my car, per the instruction book that came with it, can go approximately 307 miles before running out of gas and stranding you by the side of the road on a hot summer day -- the number 305.8 suddenly becomes significant.

My gas tank was empty pulling into the station yesterday morning.


On my way to Phoenix this morning, I smiled at this thought:

What if God has a store house full of His Spirit for me? His portion, His favor, His intimacy, His revelation, His signs, His suffering, His death, and certainly His new life... all waiting for me.

What if it is in a cup and He is just calling me to come and taste?

What if Jesus is all that it takes to drink deeply?

What if I made it my daily pursuit to strive after all that He has in store for me?

What if I didn't relent until that store, that portion, that cup was empty?


It is what Jesus was for humankind, for me.

It is what I want to be for my Saviour.

It is what I want His cup for my life to be by the time I see His face.

I want all that He has for me.

Every. last. drop.


Pictures to come from the past week! I left my camera cable behind in Queen Creek -- oops!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

And I smile.





It is the only economy I know.


My congressman could attest to that.


I am the daughter of emptiness.

Through the shards of what is my life, I look.

I see, but don't understand.

What is this thing called grace?

Over spoken and under shown in America's church.

I bring my baggage with me on Sunday.

I try, I strive, I work.

I am frustrated.

Why don't I earn?

It comes in the quiet.

While the shower is still heating.

After the music is turned off and I am focusing on staying between the lines.

It's not about me.

It's not about what I have done or what I will do.

It's all about Jesus.

It's about what He has done.

It is about who You are.


It's who You are.

And I soak on that.

In the warm water.

In the silence, in the dark confines of my mind.

It is Your nature.

And I smile.

Stemming from the soul, it is what these lips were made for.


Saturday, July 2, 2011

Over flow.


The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup. Psalm 16

If then, you have chosen Him, if He has made known to you the paths of life, live!


Arise my soul, take heart, He is enough.

You desire more.

More fulfillment, more intimacy, more closeness, life.

You want more than what this small frame can handle.

Wake up!

The truth is this: He is my cup.

In Him are infinite stores.

He can hold all, there is none too much for Him.

If fullness originates in who He is, then how much more can His cup hold?

Choose life this day, the cup that will never run dry; will not fluctuate with behavior.

Choose, this day, the goblet of the King; that you may raise your glass to Jesus, drink in His blood, and be drunk.

{homeward bound}

Friday, July 1, 2011


Confidence, quiet but sturdy.

Not in who I am, what I've done, or what I think I ought to be entitled to.

It comes with the Spirit.

Rushes in like the wind, remains present like the rapids.


It is the product of assured love.

Like the glacier melt off; it is the product of something greater, something deeper.

And deep cries out to deep.

Am I surprised when I discover that I can go deeper still?

He calls from the sea.

Feet still in the shallow end, head a great distance from the surface, from immersion.

"How?" I ask.

"Down." He whispers.

Loud and sultry, His words seem so right. They resonate with something deeper in me.

It comes again, this time not with doubt but with ignorance: "how?"

Patient and longing.

Deep cries out to deep.

"Come." He says.

For down is the way up.


It is rising now; nearing lustration, baptism.

It is sure, just as sure as He has risen.


{I like it here.}


Only all of me.

I am small.

I am lean.

I am fragile.

I am full.

Full of oil, each drop reserved for something special.

Each drop saved, used sparingly.

But for my Maker?

I offer only all of me.

I was made to pour myself out before You. every. last. drop.


Who can say they have lost when they've been wholly spent on Jesus?

I let my bottle go.

Smashed, it has splintered now.

Into thousands of fragments, bitter and sharp.

Unable to be used again, I have solidified my purpose.

My purpose is to bring You praise.

My bottle was crafted for such a mean.

To be broken, to be empty, to be lowly before You.

From fallen to sacred, I move forward in this heavy chorus.

May it be a fragrant offering.

For I come offering only all of me.